


Home-onym

by virdant



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Prequel Trilogy
Genre: Fluff, Games, Gen, Jedi Appreciation (Star Wars), Jedi Culture & Tradition (Star Wars), Jedi Language, Language, Puns & Word Play, Worldbuilding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-30
Updated: 2020-10-30
Packaged: 2021-03-08 18:14:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,120
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27281011
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/virdant/pseuds/virdant
Summary: Jedi younglings, like any other children, enjoy playing. Playing with lightsabersandplaying with words.
Relationships: Obi-Wan Kenobi & Bail Organa, Obi-Wan Kenobi & Original Jedi Character(s), Tarre Vizsla & Original Jedi Character(s)
Comments: 13
Kudos: 271
Collections: Jedi-Friendly





	Home-onym

**Author's Note:**

> thanks to the weird hour crew for joining me in weird-hour-yelling so much that we ended up with this delightful bit of world-building. special thanks to merry for leading the yelling, margan for coming up with title and summary puns, and aliche for being the most enthusiastic about babs.

“Cho-Cho!” a youngling shouted, leaping out from Master Kenobi’s cloaks, brandishing a flashlight menacingly.

Bail Organa, who had not expected a youngling, let alone a youngling brandishing a flashlight in what was distinctly a lightsaber pose, froze, blinked, and said, “Excuse me?”

Obi-Wan covered a mouth with a hand, eyes twinkling in clear amusement. “Ah, very good. That is indeed the overhand strike, and very well executed too.” To Bail, he said, “And now you lose an arm.”

Bail blinked again. “Obi-Wan,” he said. “While I understood every word out of your mouth, none of them made any sense.”

“Forgive me.” Obi-Wan’s tone lacked any contriteness, as he nudged the youngling in towards him. The youngling, a little Mirialan with a toothy grin, was beginning to look more and more upset, face turning into her headscarf. “It’s a game that the younglings play, you see. A pun, if you will. One attempts a Shii-Cho strike, and done correctly, the other loses an arm.”

“Loses an arm.”

“Usually by pulling it into your sleeve.” He paused to turn to the youngling. “Senator Organa doesn’t know the rules, but it was a very well executed strike. Master Yaddle would be quite proud of it.”

The youngling grinned again.

There were a handful of younglings in the Senate; it was an annual fieldtrip for the young Jedi to get acquainted with the inner workings of the Republic. Obi-Wan had agreed to help chaperone, given that he enjoyed his meetings with Bail, and Bail had been happy to talk to several younglings about the work he did. The conversation had finished, the younglings had dispersed to—politely!—eat the snacks that Bail had provided and ask any aides any other questions they had.

Bail studied this youngling, who had been very serious throughout the entire meeting, nodding solemnly. She was much more cheerful like this, with a bright grin and her small hand clutching a flashlight, the beam adjusted to look like the shimmering light of a saber. “Well then, youngling,” he said, “Shall we try that again?”

She beamed. With her tongue between her teeth, she slid her feet shoulder width apart. Then, her small brow furrowed in concentration, she lifted the lightsaber above her head and then back down again with a triumphant: “Cho-Cho!”

“Oh no!” Bail exclaimed, as dramatically as he could, drawing upon years of experience with nieces and nephews. “My arm!” He clutched at his arm before withdrawing it into his sleeve.

The youngling beamed. Across the room, the other younglings perked up. A Zabrak youngling, horns barely nubs on his head, grinned with sharp teeth. A Mon Cala blinked wide eyes with excitement.

By the time Obi-Wan left Bail’s office, the younglings in tow, Bail had no more arms left, which made it very difficult to drink tea.

* * *

Some ascribed the origins of Cho-Cho to Tarre Vizsla.

“Bubu!” the younglings would exclaim when he visited the creche. Their voices were bright, their tongues too clumsy to form the words Master or Buir. Crechemasters became Mama, but Tarre Vizsla, after many visits, had become Bubu, the common affection Mandalorian children addressed their parents with. 

Tarre Vizsla had loved the younglings. He would spend hours with them, playing and teaching them the ways of being a Jedi. He would teach them the basics of Shii-Cho, the Determination form, guiding them to steady their weight on shoulder-width feet, because a Jedi must be steady in the Light. He would teach them how to commit themselves to each strike, because a Jedi must be willing to commit to justice. He would teach them to roar as the younglings flung themselves headfirst into their katas, because a Jedi must be willing to roar when the galaxy was silent with fear.

And inevitably, when the younglings heard—through whispers and lectures—about what it meant to _disarm_ an enemy so thoroughly— _cho sun_ —or to just cut off a limb— _cho mai_ —or otherwise incapicate an enemy by cutting off a limb— _cho mok_ ¬—the younglings would giggle and giggle and giggle.

“Bubu,” one of them had said, “They sound the same!”

“Yes,” Tarre had replied. The word for discipline, for determination, for the act of standing firm and taking action sounded the same as the word for dismemberment. “They do, don’t they? Cho-Cho.”

“Cho-Cho!” the youngling had cried back, as they stood—feet shoulder width apart—raised their arms—in commitment—and roared.

“Ahh!” Tarre had cried, though there had been no weapon in the youngling’s hands. “An excellent strike!”

“I cut off your arm!” the youngling shrieked with joy. “I cut it off, Bubu!”

“That’s right,” he had said, as he pulled his arm into the sleeves of his robe. “You did. An excellent _cho sun_.”

“Cho-Cho! Cho-Cho!” The youngling had danced away to mime a strike at another youngling, and one by one, the younglings took up the game.

* * *

“Did you play that game as a youngling, Obi-Wan?”

The younglings had left Bail’s office, delivered safely back to their crechemaster. Obi-Wan had delivered them personally, and they parted with a carefully lisped, “Thank you, Master,” and returned to their crechemaster with a delighted “Mama!” Obi-Wan had returned to Bail’s office, where Bail, limbs fully restored, had offered him tea and a quiet conversation. 

“I did,” Obi-Wan said, a hint of wry apology in his voice. “It’s an old tradition, but somehow we’ve never stopped.”

Bail set down his cup and picked up the flashlight. It was only a flashlight—not a weapon, but a tool turned into a toy. He had seen his own nieces and nephews doing the same, taking household objects and changing them in play through their imagination. When he turned it own, the beam was wide, and it took a moment of adjusting before it formed the narrow beam the youngling had used in play. “The Jedi must have many traditions like this.”

The younglings had forgone snacks, in the end, in favor of playing Cho-Cho. The Zabrak had been enthusiastic, tripping over his own feet, and Obi-Wan had gently corrected him, nudging his feet apart, urging him to slow down and stay steady. The Mon Cala had been just as enthusiastic, but towards her fellow younglings. The little Mirialan who had so enthusiastically dismembered him first had laughed and laughed as they picked their way around Bail’s office with their little flashlights in hand.

“Yes.” Obi-Wan leaned back in his seat. He picked up his own cup of tea, cradling it with both hands as if it were something precious. “We do.” He closed his eyes and inhaled, before taking a slow sip. “One day,” he said, “I hope to tell you about all of them.”

**Author's Note:**

> i just [clenches fist] love puns.
> 
> do you also love puns? here's how you can find me:
> 
>   * find me in salt flats
>   * Follow me on twitter [@virdant](http://www.twitter.com/virdant/)
>   * [Like & retweet on twitter](https://twitter.com/virdant/status/1322146180281761794)
>   * Comment and kudo below
> 



End file.
